I wish my horse had the speed of your tongue.

How art thou out of breath when thou hast breath To say to me that thou art out of breath?

No, I will be the pattern of all patience; I will say nothing.

The crown o' the earth doth melt. My lord! O, wither'd is the garland of the war, The soldier's pole is fall'n: young boys and girls Are level now with men; the odds is gone, And there is nothing left remarkable Beneath the visiting moon.

In right and service to their noble country.

All fancy-sick she is and pale of cheer, with sighs of love, that costs the fresh blood dear.

Ay me! for aught that ever I could read, could ever hear by tale or history, the course of true love never did run smooth.